


Sweet Transvestite

by Amand_r



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M, corset porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-12
Updated: 2011-04-12
Packaged: 2017-10-17 23:59:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amand_r/pseuds/Amand_r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sweet Jackvestite, from Jacksexual, Jacksylvania.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Transvestite

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angstslashhope (Hope)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/gifts).



> This should have some sort of header, but I can't be arsed. angstslashhope did the [corset prons](http://amand-r.livejournal.com/349972.html?thread=3349780#t3349780). Because of the [picture](http://laurab1.livejournal.com/409237.html#cutid1), because of the conversation, which I shan't link to.

Jack laughs into his hands, and it's a little silly, and a little sexy, and probably wouldn't be half so distracting if he hadn't those gloves and those painted nails. But there they are, dark and crimson against his tan fingers, obscene and gorgeous when he crinkles his eyes and laughs, and then drags the tips of them across his mouth when he lowers them. He has either forgotten, in the hilarity of the moment, that he is wearing lipstick, dark thick candygloss, or he just doesn't care.

Ianto reaches out with one finger and runs the tip of it along Jack's lips, and he can feel it, after all these hours at the film, sticky, like oil that's been drying on skin.

 _  
The movie had been ridiculous and frivolous and not something that he would remotely find interesting if he had been forced to watch it by himself. Ianto can only recall having ever seen it once before, back when he had been a teen and Cardiff hadn't many sinful delights for his age bracket, he and Bran had sneaked into the back and watched it. He hadn't known that the back row had been the one place he hadn't wanted to be, and two hours later they had emerged, dazed, faces red with lipstick kisses, hair studded with rice, clothes wet; Ianto had found a stalk of celery in his coat pocket the next day._

 _But this time, it had been important that they all go, not that it had been Jack's idea; it had been the Rift monitor's. He and Gwen and Owen had rolled their eyes at each other, a rare moment of commiseration in which they all said, 'We’re grown ups, now."_

 _But Tosh had run up to them in the street outside the theatre, her hair teased and painted into this scandalous confection of cotton candy, her face powdered and blushed, a mini geisha doll, and a French maid outfit that she moved in as if she cleaned houses for a living. In_ that _. Owen had offered her three hundred quid to handle his feather duster._

 _Ianto had cast about in the theatre for Jack, because Jack had insisted that the spike in the rift had been dangerously high, and that they all needed to be there. Jack, who it would have been just like to leave them all there in a theatre full of sexually liberated individuals who had nothing better to do with their Saturday nights than dress in gold lame and strut about wagging their scantily clad—_

 _Oh, he could see the attraction. What he hadn't understood was where Jack was, until the man in question had sauntered up in his great coat, hand in pockets._

 _Tosh had stared at him. "You promised!" she had cried, and Ianto hadn't been able to blame her. She stuck out with them, though once they went inside_ he _would once again be the odd man out. Well, and Owen, and Jack._

 _Not so much with Jack, because he hadn't taken his hands out of his coat pockets, merely parted them, dragging the front of the coat with away, like some pervy flash routine from a Benny Hill episode, and that had been when Ianto had seen…well, all of it, and—  
_

Now, Jack is sitting in his lap, in his own flat, laughing as he recalls the whole evening from his point of view, as if Ianto hadn't been there and his straight-laced evil twin had been there instead. His hair is soft and straight on his head, he obviously has applied some colour to it to make it shine red like this, and his ears quiver a bit when he turns his head, the pearl earrings clipped onto them almost pendulous.

Ianto's finger drags across Jack's lip and then up his cheek to that pearl droplet and Jack hiccups a little before he stops laughing. His eyes are still dancing and he wiggles his arse in those pants –those satin panties that hide nothing—against Ianto's trousers.

"You were," Jack hiccoughs. "You were so shocked."

"In my defense, I'm not used to talking back to the screen," Ianto says absentmindedly. He tickles the hollow of Jack's ear, because to hear him laugh is somewhat of a luxury, in some ways. Jack laughs a great deal, but it isn't this laughter.

"We were in the back row," Jack purrs, leaning back into the arm that is supporting his weight as he sits sideways, legs hanging off the settee. "There's a participatory obligation."

Ianto smiles. "'Fuck the front row'?" His tongue darts out to lick the temporary heart tattoo on Jack's bicep. It says 'Boss', and even Gwen had laughed about that.

Jack grins and those arched eyebrows get even higher. His eyes are impossibly smoky. "Did you see those chicks? They were hot."

Ianto tries to pay attention to Jack recalling the finer points of the evening, including the fact that there had been no notable Rift activity, and even the moment in which he and Tosh had done this strange arm thing, over and over again, but Ianto's fingers don't want to listen. Instead they trip across Jack's face, the side, and then move down to the necklace, the fake pearls ghastly and tasteless and possibly something he resurrected from the paste jewelry boxes in the lower levels of the Hub.

Jack stops smiling, snorting a little, his hands resting in his lap, curling and uncurling, as if the gloves are foreign. They might very well be. Ianto digs his finger down into the seam of the corset, then, and Jack laughs again, a big bark, and he curls in Ianto's lap as he tries to ward him off, and his arse just sinks deeper into Ianto's lap, his legs swinging up and those shoes, oh dear god those shoes that he still has on, with their heels and their Mary Jane straps over what Ianto wouldn't have guessed could be so shapely for such large feet. He knows how big Jack's feet are; he's measured. He's measured every inch of Jack, and he has his own reasons for that.

He leaves Jack's corset alone for now, hands traveling away from the roughness of it and its sparkles to try the edge of the garter, right where it meets the clip, and when he presses a little, flips a switch, it releases with a soft snap, and the stocking inches down. Jack's eyes are glossy and his nose is a little crinkled like it normally is when he smiles and he just can't help it. Ianto wonders if that glass of…something…Jack'd shared with Tosh hadn't been a little more than wine.

"Oh, Mister Jones," Jack drawls, just a little, and then his eyes light up. "I remember a vaudeville act about that, 'Mister Jones, that's terrible. Oh Mister Jones that's horrible'."

Ianto's fingers dig under the stocking and pull it down, slippery little thing, peeling right off Jack's admittedly sweaty leg. Jack's legs swing back and forth, naughty girl. "That was Mister Bones," he corrects him.

Jack's arms go about his shoulders then, and his face is right there and it is distracting, because he has worn perfume, fucking perfume, something dark and floral, and mixed in with his own unique scent; Ianto feels it settle on him like so much fog. His fingers abandon the stocking halfway down Jack's leg and instead snake their way to Jack's waist.

"Mister Bones," Jack hums in his ear. "That's horrible," he sings. And this his mouth finds Ianto's ear and he sucks it in, pulling with his teeth.

It occurs to Ianto that he hasn't kissed Jack yet, and he isn't sure that he wants to. Or maybe he does, wants to smear that slippery red lipstick over them both. Or better wait, yes, have Jack leave streaks of it on his cock, rings and marks like red waterlines as he works him with his mouth, those smoke-painted eyes lidded and snakelike when they roll up to see his face.

Or maybe, he considers when Jack slides off his lap for the barest of seconds to straddle him on the settee, he could just lick it off, or do his damnedest trying. It smells faintly of cherries when Jack's mouth hovers over his, and he wonders where Jack has got it from. Some drugstore on the corner somewhere. Did he buy it when he was wearing his work clothes, tossing it on the counter casually with the eyeshadow a pack of gum and a bottle of water? Did he wink at the girl who rang him up? Maybe joke about how he was buying it for his lady? Or did he ask her saucily if she thought it was the right shade for him?

"I shall have to remember your penchant for catching us all in embarrassing situations," he murmurs when Jack undoes his flies and hums into his neck. Ianto's hands aren't working very well, but he does manage to dance a bit about the lace waistband of Jack's panties before he slides back further and digs his fingers into the edges of them, under the elastic and next to the skin of Jack's arse. Jack hisses and grabs hold of his cock.

"Mmm," he says, and it's the most sibilant hum Ianto has ever heard. "Tosh wasn't embarrassed." He wiggles his arse in Ianto's hands. "Pull them aside, just…to the side." And then his hands are on the condom, rolling it down Ianto's cock and he's sorry, very sorry that they aren't in a bed, but no. He can't wait, not really, when Jack is using a small packet of slick on the outside of the condom before tossing it away some place where Ianto is sure he'll find it weeks from now, behind the radiator, hot and melted and staining the hardwood floor, but Jesus he doesn't care when Jack seems to yank his hips away from the back of the sofa and at the same time crawl onto him before settling down on his cock like he's done this a thousand times before, and also because he probably has. He writhes again, pumping shallowly as he settles down, and Ianto's hands find his hips, framed by the peekaboo lace and cut a little in sharpness where the corset ends and Jack bends himself against it, possibly because he likes the pain of it.

"Oh, well, Tosh," Ianto tries to say, keeping up the conversation as if Jack isn't flexing around his cock and coyly smiling through those fucking mascara-pasted lashes. He pumps his hips once, twice, to try to get Jack to move more, but he's as slow going as he could be, one hand raising to suck in a fingertip and draw it out, long strand of saliva pulling from his lower lip to the wet red nail when he reaches out and pets Ianto's own lips, some slippery thing that he likes because then Jack follows it to his mouth and there, there's that kiss now, finally, the choice is taken from his hands.

Jack breaks the kiss and starts to move, up and down Ianto's cock, but also in little circles slow, like some lap dance that Ianto had once got at a strip club in London. His hands trail to Ianto's shoulders and he presses his forehead to Ianto's, his breath slow where Ianto's is rapidly becoming quick.

"I want," Jack says, "to paint you up."

Ianto can’t reply, so he squeezes Jack's waist where the corset ends, kneads the hard flesh there.

"I want," Jack reiterates, "to cinch your waist, and paint you up."

Ianto turns his head to the side a bit, and then Jack licks his cheek, sloppily, rubbing his red lipstick all over Ianto's temple. A snag of it catches his eyelid and he can feel it there, a heavy mark.

"I want," Jack says again, "to paint you gold and silver, maybe, oh, and red and red and red." He laughs. "This thing isn't enough. Too short. I can breathe," he says when Ianto squeezes his waist harder, and he thrusts his hips. "I don't want to breathe." Ianto can see the head of his cock trapped against his stomach and the lacy band at the top of the panties and he slides down to cup it in both hands. Jack stutters for a second, a swift intake of breath strangled, and Ianto feels him grip his cock.

It's almost too much, the smells, the slick oily feeling on his face, his hands, Jack's heat pressed to the front of him, Jack's heat on top of him, and so he doesn't feel that terrible for coming when he does, arching and thrusting up, his hands digging into Jack's panties so that he can pump the cock there, hard and red and almost swollen.

"I," Jack pants, even as he comes, and Ianto's hand catches it, not because he doesn't want to get come all over himself, but because he wants to hold it for a moment, warm and slick, and as Jack falls forward and buries his face in his neck, Ianto hold his fist there, trapped between them, filled with Jack's spunk. Jack's cock pulses a bit when he moves his hand against it, and he whimpers, still trying to finish what he had been trying to say, stubborn Jack.

"I still want to make you wear the shoes."

Ianto pushes Jack away from his chest then, and reaches out with his dripping hand to paint over Jack's lips, his come mingling with his lipstick until it is wetter. Jack licks in between Ianto's fingers, letting the digits brush against his face, along his eyelashes, impossibly long.

"I'll wear the shoes," Ianto tells him, because he can't not say it, because he wants to say it, to do it, to let Jack dress him up like whatever and arrange his limbs and tell him what to do. He really does. It frightens him how much he wants it. His softening cock twitches in Jack's arse just considering the silky stockings riding low on this thighs.

Jack tilts his head, smiles and reaches out a hand to grab Ianto's hair. "I'll hold you to that."

END


End file.
